


Not Found Wanting

by feverishsea



Series: Even Mortals Have More Sense [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: But C'mon Guys You Know Who This Is, Gen, M/M, Mystery Elf Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:10:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverishsea/pseuds/feverishsea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Thorin and Company are forced to stop in Rivendell, Bilbo makes an odd acquaintance who tells him frightening things that, perhaps, do not matter very much after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Found Wanting

**Author's Note:**

> Been doing a ton of serious writing and needed a break. This was the first thing that came to mind.

“Hello, little one. What brings a shy creature like yourself here, so very far from home?”

Bilbo looks up to see a tall, willowy elf with hair as pale as flaxen standing next to him with a smile. The creature is utterly foreign to him, as unearthly in its way as a Warg or an Orc, only born out of different dreams. Bilbo might be frightened, or impressed, or something, but he’s frankly too weary now to do much but stare.

“A quest,” he mumbles and then blushes immediately. It’s true, but somehow Bilbo feels like he’s revealed too much.

His companion glances over its shoulder. The rest of the elves, and of the dwarven company, are feasting and carousing at a large table in the center of the hall. Bilbo had only slunk away near the balcony because he thought that he could get away with it.

(And he’s not angry, or upset, or the least bit heartsick that he managed it with no problem, of course he isn’t.)

The elf turns back with only slight lines of worry drawn across its impossibly beautiful face. It’s so strange to see the imperfections of emotion become something lovely on that fair skin and those high-boned cheeks.

“Is that so?” the elf says lightly. “Be that as it may, I would advise that you confide it to no others. I do not think that any here bear you ill will, but…”

Bilbo nods. His coarse curls bounce around his temples and he attempts to gather his feet close to his body. Back home he’d never given much thought to himself, but it seems that since he’s left the Shire all he’s done is realize how very inadequate he is.

And not just because he’s a hobbit, is the sad truth of it.

Before Bilbo has time to realize what it’s doing, the elf folds down in a swirl of fluid movement under silk garments until it’s crouching next to him. It smiles – how long has it been since somebody smiled at him? – and reaches out to him.

Gentle fingers lay against his cheek and cup the side of his jaw. Bilbo stares wide-eyed at icy blue eyes that don’t feel cold at all.

“My eyes see much like your Mithrandir’s,” the elf says matter-of-factly, so that it doesn’t even sound arrogant. “I can see why your company might have need of you, even if their eyes are blinded by years in the dark.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo notices a shaggy head turn their way. There’s no reason for him to be paying attention to the head of their company now, and yet… he is. He does.

But the elf’s words feel like cool water bathing hurts Bilbo hadn’t realized he possessed, and he’s unwilling to move. What is more of his – their – displeasure? Bilbo thinks rebelliously. They will never accept me, never praise me. I will fall short no matter if I try to obey their rules. Rules that I don’t understand and they don’t explain.

So he looks back up at the elf, guileless and trusting. The elf smiles a little.

“But I wonder why you stay with them, little one,” it murmurs to him. It stays low beside him, but gently pulls its hands away from his face.

“I – I don’t know,” Bilbo stammers. Is this strange? he wonders distantly. Should he be worried?

The elf glances over at the table in the center of the hall and its gaze lingers there for a moment. Bilbo looks with him, wondering what it sees.

Oh, and… Bilbo gulps, because yes, Thorin certainly sees them. There is no mistaking those dark eyebrows drawing his face into a scowl under his shaggy mane.

And yet, despite the once-king’s constant gloom, there is something magnetic about him. Bilbo feels it even now, and it breaks the elf’s spell a little. He blinks up at the elf, comparing the smooth curve of the elf’s hairless jaw with Thorin’s rough-hewn features.

Thorin is not found wanting in the comparison, Bilbo realizes, baffled but certain.

The elf turns to look at him again, its movements liquid quicksilver. It peers at Bilbo and for some reason gives him a sad smile that comes near to pitying.

“Ai, would I could save you from this, my brave little Halfling,” the elf says. His voice drops to a whisper and Bilbo knows abstractly that he should feel fear, but instead he feels comforted by the starlight caught in the elf’s light eyes. “Your lot is one of sorrow, and regret. I can do nothing to ease it for you, and you will not realize your fate until you have come too far to turn back.”

Bilbo sputters. His stomach drops out from under him. He tries to move away and goes to wave his hands about in his confusion, near to betrayal. But he slips and instead falls over backward.

He expects to hit the floor, but at one moment a long-fingered hand shoots forward to grasp his wrist… and a warm, solid arm grabs him from around the back.

“What?” Bilbo gasps. He twists his head up to see Thorin Oakenshield standing behind him.

The dwarf’s eyes are blazing, but when it comes, his voice is low enough not to be heard by the merrymakers at the table. He only appears out of control so far as is convenient, Bilbo is rapidly learning.

“Are you telling ghost stories?” Thorin demands in a voice like gravel. “Perhaps elves feel differently, but I believe there is enough in the world for a Halfling to fear already.”

Bilbo would protest, but the dwarf is standing directly behind him, heat bleeding into Bilbo like a furnace, arm still wrapped around the hobbit like a vice, and Bilbo cannot find his voice at all.

“I meant no offense,” the elf says politely. When it looks down at Bilbo, he believes he truly sees regret in its pale eyes. “I only… There was some small knowledge to be shared, so I shared it.”

“Your choice in confidant is questionable. What is your interest in my company?” Thorin asks in his characteristic only-polite-enough-not-to-offend manner.

The elf bites its lip pensively and stares at the company. It would seem more natural for it to look past the balcony into the night forest, Bilbo thinks. His thoughts feel giddy and wild. He can’t stop feeling the heat of Thorin’s hand splayed protectively over his shoulder.

“I do not know,” it says finally, and truly seems regretful. It bows its white-gold head and sighs. The sound is like wind chimes. “My fate is bound with that of your fellowship in some way, but beyond that I cannot see. The future is not so very far away to us elves, and yet so many things may yet change.”

“Can’t you tell anything?” Bilbo hears himself pipe up. There is a brief pause where the elf stares at him in surprise and Thorin’s hand tightens on his shoulder. Bilbo shrinks into himself and wishes he had said nothing. “I just – I meant no offense, only – it all seems quite vague,” he says, aiming for diplomatic.

When Thorin gives a surprised snort of amusement, he’s fairly sure he’s failed in that endeavor.

Oddly enough a corner of the elf’s mouth pulls up, like it is pleased with him. It does turn toward the open balcony now, and stares into the night sky.

“I can only tell you that your quest is more important than you know, and more important than almost anyone else might guess,” it says.

“Except Gand- Mithrandir,” Bilbo prompts, emboldened.

The elf gives him an amused look out of the corner of its eye. Thorin’s fingers squeeze into his shoulders like a brand. Bilbo knows there will be bruises tomorrow. For reasons he doesn’t care to examine, the knowledge does not displease him.

“Except Mithrandir,” the elf confirms. It steps forward and kneels again; puts its face at eye level with a confused Bilbo while Thorin begins to growl deep in his throat, a low rumble that reverberates through Bilbo’s skin and slides underneath to hum in his blood. “Little one, I cannot withdraw my earlier words, though I might wish to. But I will tell you that although sorrow comes sometimes on swift wings, there are things more important than the length of time allotted to you – or anyone else.”

The elf lays its hand atop Bilbo’s head and gives him a sad, pleading look, like Bilbo is something precious. It is not a look Bilbo ever expects to see again, so he memorizes it, though there is a niggling feeling at the back of his head that somehow this isn’t for him. Not really.

“Be careful, little one,” the elf tells him, its fingers chilly through his curls while Thorin’s chest heats his back. “I fear that more fates than mine rest with yours.”

Impossibly fast the elf moves forward and brushes a cool-lipped kiss across Bilbo’s brow.

By the time Bilbo blinks and the elf draws back, Thorin is roaring in indignation and hauling Bilbo backward. Bilbo cocks his head as Thorin tows him away and watches the elf flit out of the room, only pausing long enough for a single final smile over its shoulder.

The kiss is still cool on his forehead, but Thorin’s hand is tight on his shoulder and the dwarf’s breath is hot at his ear, and any remaining chill in his bones is melted away when Thorin mutters, “You will stay by me the rest of this night, do you hear me, Halfling?” and moves his hand to leave more bruises around Bilbo’s wrist.


End file.
